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Considering the album's consistently dour landscape, the tracks presented are actually quite distinct, giving the disc an air of organic and genuine feeling rather than seeming coaxed from the grasp of some preconceived stylistic genre. Instead, the opening "Progress" broods forward with foreboding expanse of black drone interspersed with sharp cries and metallic clatters. The infused effect is one of a sonic representation of the post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland, barren and cold.
The two-part "Mores" begins with a steady and quite gentle drone that gradually continues its descent into foreboding fan belt textures and a thick bass pulse. The explosion opening the beginning of the second part is as dense as anything presented here, as grinding drones and shard-like vocals emerge from the buried background. The production, with the vocals set far back amongst the murk, makes the effect that much more frightening and isolated.
"Aspiration" opens with a scream and a drone atop a light organ line, easily the fairest sound presented on the album. The eerie effect of this heavenly sound being beaten again and again pretty much dissolves the hope of any uplifting conclusion to the disc, though to be fair that was pretty much clear from the get-go. Sprawling along, the piece is a monster of punctuated dissolution, a truly grimy realization of the fight between light and dark, with dark obviously taking the upper hand. Still, the dialogue remains an interesting one throughout, as the two present themselves in continuous, almost harmonious opposition, never quite giving in completely either way.
The approach is ultimately a far more densely orchestrated one than most acts forging similarly dark soundscapes. The other two-part piece here, "Denial," moves with patient poise, beginning with a soft and angelic vocal hum emitted into the haze from the belly of some secret cave. Moving cautiously forward, each sound presents itself with care, contributing to the ever-evolving shape of the work as a whole. It may represent a dark chaos, but it is achieved through highly human ends.
The closing second part seals the casket for good however. Thick guitar squall and vocals (again--perhaps too consistent throughout the album to remain as entirely damaged as initially appearing) create a dense blanket of violent energy that seeps outward in toxic dispersion. Yet this too quiets slowly into an unclear and unanswered end, leaving more questions than answers on this consistently ambiguous record.
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Please visit the site to hear previews and order.
LIMB is an archival release of experimental and minimalist compositions recorded from 1980-1983, from the early days of Foetus and pre-Foetus. Though the material is largely unreleased, some of the pieces have been previously released on the compilation albums by Coil and United Dairies. Some were excavated and some of it was reconstructed or re-edited from compositions on cassette. One piece is constructed from an organ part written in 1982, which JG took the liberty of finishing in 2008. These pieces were made before the introduction of MIDI and sampling technology. It shows the lineage and genesis of some of the methods that JG is working in today.
If you like JG's work as Manorexia, you'll dig this album.
LIMB is released as a deluxe double disc package. The music disc contains 12 tracks at 18+ minutes with an additional 20 minute bonus mp3 track.
On the second disc, director Clement Tuffreau kindly allowed us to include his 2005 documentary about JG Thirlwell, NYC FOETUS, with this package. The eighty minute film features interviews with JG Thirlwell, Matt Johnson, Alex Hacke (Einsturzende Neubauten), Michael Gira, Richard Kern, Lydia Lunch, Martin Bisi and Elysian Fields along with a lot of never before seen footage of Foetus, Steroid Maximus, Manorexia and more. There is also with 45 minutes of bonus extras,comprised of Steroid Maximus 18 piece ensemble live in France, Foetus live in Hannover, Manorexia live at The Stone NYC and a snippet of JG's LEMUR commission at 3 Legged Dog in NYC. The film is subtitled in French .
This deluxe package also contains a 48 page perfect bound book with minimal designs by JGT (all in his signature red, white, gray and black palette).
This is all held in an attractive sturdy plastic slipcase printed with another of JG's designs.
LIMB CD
01. Sick Mins (Ectopic Version) 8'39"
02. Ezekiel's Wheels 1'38"
03. Te Deum 4'18"
04. The Anxious Figure 4'03"
05. Primordial Industry 6'12"
06. Industrial Go-slow 3'37"
07. That We Forbid 2'49"
08. Sjogren's Syndrome 7'17"
09. Echolation 1'22"
10. TO45 tag 1'37"
11. Piano Piece 4'03"
12. The Caterpillar Kid 5'52"
plus bonus track (mp3 file)
You Have To Obey 20'00"
LIMB DVD
NY Foetus
A documentary about JG Thirlwell by Clement Tuffreau
+ many bonus extras of Steroid Maximus live, Foetus, Manorexia, LEMUR and more!
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Instead of using the group as his solo vehicle outside Volcano the Bear, Padden has begun releasing albums under his own name and letting this group develop its own voice. This loosening of the reins over the last couple of albums has seen The One Ensemble mature as a group, going from being simply a great band to a great band that seems to have ideas about becoming even better. Padden’s stamp is still apparent; on “The Beacon” the melody is very much what would be expected of him. The eastern European and klezmer influences that run through The One Ensemble’s music are even stronger on Other Thunders with pieces like “The Vapour” sounding like they could belong on one of Tzadik Records’s Radical Jewish Culture releases.
Yet elsewhere his role as captain of this vessel seems to be nominal only as the other players push The One Ensemble into strange waters. “The Instructions” has more in common with Volcano the Bear than Padden’s solo work in terms of structure but the mood brings to mind the disturbing formlessness of Limpe Fuchs and her group Anima. This otherworldly feeling dissipates with the “The Sun” whose mostly vocal structure has a tribal and ritualistic vibe to it, the previously encountered alienation of “The Instructions” making these human voices all the more compelling.
This mix between Padden’s vision and group experimentation makes all the individual pieces on Other Thunders into superb miniatures but overall it stops the album coming together like the earliest One Ensemble albums. However, instead of fracturing under the weight of its variety, Other Thunders instead revels in its multiple personalities. So while it may not beat Live at VPRO as my favourite One Ensemble album, it comes close and judging by the direction the group are taking on the last two releases, it will not be long until I have a new favorite.
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Their response, as is suggested in the relatively brief but informative liner notes, was closely linked to their teachers' approaches. The first disc, which mostly presents a series of miniatures from the group, displays an overarching tendency toward the kind of spatial melodicism for which Satie was a major proponent. Auric's "Prelude" opens the disc with a small and whimsical piano work who's dainty moves are at once simple and intricately emotive.
This approach would garner much attention and, though many of these musicians would not be heard from in a wider circle, the Parisian associations are unavoidable when listening to any of this material. In fact, so singular is the sound that one piece flows into the next as if they were written as such, with the second track, Durey's "Romance sans paroles," flowing perfectly from the first with an even more uncluttered sound.
This neo-classical approach is largely best exemplified by the piano pieces, which take up the majority of the first disc, as these allow for the clearest grasp on the work. Milhaud, perhaps the best known of the six people featured here, is marked by a fluidity on "Caramel mou" that moves from mood to mood at a moment's notice without ever losing sight of a certain bar room pulse and energy. Poulenc's gentle "Huit nocturnes" flit atmospherically about with little pretension and a careful respect for each note. With such being the case, it is perhaps inevitable that many of these pieces are infused with an admiration for the silences between each note, infusing each piece with an almost reverential simplicity of cause.
In stark contrast to the first disc's 22 pieces, the second presents only three. Milhaud's "La Création Du Monde" is a ballet whose playful genre-jumps are in marked proximity to the cartoon music of Stalling and Golden Era Hollywood soundtracking as well as the jazz and Brazilian music Milhaud had been studying. Conversely, Honegger's "Prélude, Fugue Et Postlude" is a dramatic and radiant work whose reach is similarly expansive, though perhaps a bit more serious in intention. Yet the bulk of the disc is taken up by the nearly hour-long "Les Mamelles De Tirésias" of Poulenc. Again almost cartoonish in nature, the two-act opera bouffe is nevertheless a vast demonstration of the creativity and broad reach of the composer at hand.
A fine and well-compiled compilation, the discs here are filled with exciting and highly varying approaches to a certain style at a certain time. That many of these works are difficult to acquire in another context only makes the album more intriguing. Though this may seem an oddity among the 20th century classical canon, this is highly enjoyable, interesting music whose renown is perhaps not what it should be considering its quality.
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Mixing equal parts Can and Stereolab (who, of course, took more than a bit from Can themselves) with a grooving and cruise-worthy psychedelicism propagated by the likes of Funkadelic, Cave manage to sound at once immediately familiar and entirely original, a trait uncommon in today's increasingly oversaturated music landscape. Where many bands seem to be loosening their belt of late however, Cave is continually tightening, forging their jams into focused demonstrations of their collective potential.
Where Cave stand out is in the band's ability to do this without ever losing the intricacies and feeling afforded to in-the-moment creation. Rather than sterilizing their sound into a palatable and time-wary take on the extended, horizon-minded style they practice, the group takes full advantage of both studio and approach to craft each piece into a work the form of which only elevates the group's output.
Such is clear from the very opening, when the rich guitar line of "Gamm" is built from the ground up into a thudding instrumental. After a patient intro, the unit explodes into pure energy, each instrument contributing to the throb and shape of the whole. No note is superfluous here, and the focus gives the piece an even clearer trajectory. The following "Made in Malaysia," with its hyper synth lines and clacking drum work, fuses a nearly punk chant with an absolutely undeniable and deranged riff whose effect is garnered from the construction of the lines themselves rather than the overall effect. This is an immensely precise spaciness being conjured.
Elsewhere, the group displays the subtle mastery of form they have. The dancey funk of "Encino Men" emanates outward while the brooding post-punkisms of "Requiem for John Sex" built towards a kind of post-rock vocabulary that eschews any sense of wanky self-indulgence in favor of pure group energy wielding. The result is a special disc that easily represents the strongest statement from this group yet. Great material and great production rarely coalesce in such a clear and fertile vision as this.
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Preservation
I recently learned that Paul Gough began making experimental music in 1982 after being inspired by fellow Aussie Tom Ellard's criminally underappreciated Severed Heads, which immediately gave me a favorable disposition towards him. Not that he needs that, of course, as he seems to have been doing quite well before acquiring my goodwill. Unusually, however, he has only been releasing his computer-based abstract experimentations for the last decade (aside from very limited self-released cassettes) and has a reputation for being somewhat reclusive, though he has collaborated with some well-known folks like Christian Fennesz and enjoys a healthy degree of international renown. I have also read that Gough hates bios, so I guess I will elaborate no further (in case he reads this). I don't want trouble.
"Come On Join The Choir Invisible" commences the proceedings with a ghostly mass choral drone, which is quite striking but regrettably fails to evolve into much of anything. I will give Gough the benefit of the doubt here and assume that it is meant only as an introduction rather than a complete work, as the following track ("Evil Household Ceremony") is much more ambitious and fully realized. Its foundations are somewhat mundane (a pulsing, wavering drone and a buried repeating melodic loop), but a chaotic blizzard of electronic blurts and whizzes rages all around it and Gough's singular production abilities make for a very engaging headphone experience.
Notably, those first two tracks illustrate an odd paradox: Gough's studio wizardry often transforms even somewhat pedestrian material into something alive and attention-grabbing, yet he occasionally fails to exploit his more inspired moments to their full potential. That said, Gough gets absolutely everything right with the haunting and near-perfect "It Will Never Snow In Sydney", which is very similar in tone to Angelo Badalamenti's more unsettling soundtrack work for David Lynch (but far more complex). Menacing low-end synths combine with heavily reverbed and echoed voice snippets, thick drones, and mangled swells to create an atmosphere of singularly haunting disquietude. Then an unexpected psychedelic menagerie of shifting digital frogs (or something) drifts into the mix and it stops being near-perfect and enters the realm of flat-out amazing.
Pimmon nails it again with crackling and roaring slow-motion melancholy of "Hidden," but "Sydney" largely eclipses all the surrounding tracks and causes them to seem pale and somewhat anticlimactic by comparison. That is not to say they are not enjoyable- it's just that Gough never again achieves such a brilliant convergence of studio mastery and songcraft. Smudge Another Yesterday is a vibrant, complexly layered work that is quite gratifying even during its least impressive moments when listened to attentively. Gough is a staggeringly skilled and meticulous producer that achieves improbable clarity amidst elephantine density and elevates panning into an art form, so it is probably unreasonable to expect his musical vision to consistently reach similar heights. This is the work of an extremely purposeful and patient man at the peak of (most of) his powers.
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Sifting through the melancholy cool and reverb-laden muck of Violet, Boy In Static's sophomore album, I acknowledged this restless songwriter's potential bubbling under the surface. Caught in the trappings of a subgenre with presumably scarce room to trailblaze, Alexander Chen still managed to construct an acceptable and often gratifying facsimile with more than a few personal touches. Now paired up with Kenji Ross, Chen seems eager to leave that part of his catalog far behind, letting his voice ride atop songs like "Starlet" instead of buried below swirling guitar effects.
The album's title hints playfully at a time in a child's development where he discovers ways to emulate the adult men he looks up to. As a boy in the '80s, I distinctly recall buying candy cigarettes—both the gum and chalky varieties—from the ice cream truck that parked itself outside my elementary school the minute warm weather began to creep out from under winter's unkind influence. New York was a different place back then, yet lyrically Chen seems more preoccupied with the West Coast as evinced on "LA Runaways" and the album's most singleworth ditty, "Young San Francisco." On the latter track, AFX-ish quasi-xylophonic twinkles courtesy of a toy piano provide a joyful melody for the bubblegum rhythms and positively precious vocals. Musically, this song embodies everything the new Boy In Static strives to be, and its aesthetic similarities to "Young Folks" from the aforementioned Peter Bjorn and John won't be lost on anyone paying attention.
Unfortunately, Candy Cigarette contains more aspiration than inspiration, filled with fleeting emotive moments and flickers of talent, but so very rarely shining brilliant. What concerns me most about this is whether or not I flatteringly mistook Boy In Static's capacity for imitation for artistic authenticity. It's a decent indie pop record, with novelty quirks and quite a few respectable nods to New Order (especially on "Osaka"), but Chen and Ross need to assess whether or not they're as clever as they think.
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Students of Decay
Providence's Eric Carlson has been performing as Area C since 2002, largely alone but sometimes with occasional collaborators like Joel Thibodeau of Death Vessel. His work has historically been made with an arsenal of a guitar, a farfisa, a sampler, and a recorder, but he appears to have left the farfisa in the closet this time around. I found some pictures of him performing live and was surprised not to see a laptop sitting on-stage with him, as this album seems very meticulously composed and features a healthy amount of electronic glitchery. Regardless of the enigmatic process, something undeniably remarkable has been emerging from his nest of pedals and wires lately: this first album for tireless drone-purveyors Students of Decay shows a marked evolution from Area C's earlier works. Charmed Birds unveils a warmer, more rhythmic, and more distinctive aesthetic.
"Composition Journal" opens the album with a lazy looping and shimmering drone that is intermittently disrupted by stabs of white noise. The rhythmic foundation of the track is a locked-groove that approximates what Neu might sound like after taking a near-fatal amount of downers, which suits the track beautifully: anything more intrusive would break the fragile, sleepy spell that the multiple layers of guitars have painstakingly woven. As the track progresses, it is masterfully enhanced by some sublimely beautiful treated-guitar washes and given emotional color by minor-key low-end swells. Around the midway point, the rhythmic throb is removed to reveal a languid and sensual bed of sparkling ambient bliss. That, however, is quickly enveloped by a swarm of electronic glitches which themselves ultimately dissolve into an outro of incandescent mournful swells.
The rest of the album largely follows a similar (albeit sometimes less stunning) vein, with few exceptions (like the sparser and darker "Of Set Purpose, No Arrangement"). However, I am more than happy with the aforementioned vein, as Carlson far exceeds similar artists in his feel for melody, dynamics, and arrangements. He also exhibits a purposeful deliberation that is all too rare in the underground improv scene. Bluntly speaking, drone music constructed from guitar loops has the potential to be meandering and spectacularly, infuriatingly dull. Carlson skillfully avoids this pitfall with an intuitive understanding of how long a particular theme can unfold before it becomes tiresome, as well as a knack for graceful transition. He also grasps that even the most beautiful, warm, shimmering drone can start to seem syrupy and boring in large doses, so he has artfully expanded his tonal palette with harsher crackling and rhythmic throbs.
There are several other striking tracks here, but I am most fond of "Sleeping Birds" (which is very effectively enhanced by a crackling cut-up field recording of deceased poet Robert Greeley) and the epic twenty-minute title track, which marries elegant slide guitar to a slow-motion crackling pulse and an endless melancholy backwards-sounding guitar loop.
The English language does not contain a sufficient amount of synonyms for "shimmering," "nuanced," and "warm" for me to effectively describe this album. I am thoroughly impressed. Carlson's earlier albums have been quite promising and likeable, but this is the work of a formidable artist hitting his stride (but presumably not his peak).
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While consisting of a series of untitled tracks, the sense is more that this is a single long piece with track markers put in for convenience, the segments more or less self-contained, but obviously intended to be heard within series. The modus operandi of the album becomes clear once the second track starts: a stiff, rhythmc sequence of bell-like analog tones cuts through the silence, resembling almost the first bar of “Blue Monday” cut apart and isolated. Eventually a handclap focused analog rhythm comes in, safely pushing it into early 1980s electro territory. Being the longest track here, the minimalist development is a liability, as the track feels too slow to get started.
The fifth track is similar in its obsessive fascination with a single sound, this time the analog bass synth sound. Allowed to run throughout in its basic structure, it is subjected to numerous pitch shifts and spring reverb, eventually getting locked into an electro rhythm before stuttering and falling apart. Texturally, this is revisited towards the end on the 13th track, though in this case within an erratic, extremely randomized rhythm.
Even the early 1990s gets a nod early on, with track 3 taking the old school robotic electro sound forward with house influenced synth stabs that harken to the days of old, but with that granular synthesis/fancy technology sort of edge. By the middle of the disc, the comparisons to other similar projects are inevitable. The more simplistic tones but random skittering rhythms are not that far from the modern work of one time tourmates Autechre, though here it feels much less like a statistical equation quantizing a synthesizer.
Some of the shorter connecting tracks are even notable in their own right: the fifth track is one simple tone that is stretched for an entire minute, but it doesn’tf eel forced or just doen for technological ease. Instead, it becomes a slow, cautious study of sound, with each slight variation becoming a major focus.
By the end of the disc, the pacing becomes slower, and the final set of three tracks examine the decay of a rhythm, going from a slow, awkward rhythm into glitchy cut-up chaos to a final silence that ends the disc. The disc is one that is more listened to for artistic appreciation than any sort of casual listening though, as the tracks are too stripped down and nuanced for background listening. It’s not good for doing housework or while at the job, but with a good set of headphones and time to appreciate it, it’s a very strong work.
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Editions Mego
Jim O'Rourke has had an utterly improbable and singular career. In the span of two decades he has collaborated with nearly every single person in underground music that I admire, ranging from Nurse With Wound to Sonic Youth to Merzbow to Joanna Newsom. He has even done soundtrack work for Werner Herzog, which makes it abundantly clear that O'Rourke was put on earth largely to make me dissatisfied with my own comparatively meager accomplishments. However, while I have generally liked everything that he has been involved with, I have never found any of his work to be stunning to a degree that would warrant such countercultural ubiquity. Of course, I had never heard this particular album, which entirely justifies his status and sets my mind firmly at ease.
The thick, merciless, and unsettling repetition and glitchiness of the opening track ("I'm Happy") favorably calls to mind both Oval and Steve Reich's "Different Trains." The obsessive looping treated guitar (I think) endlessly and subtly morphs, while lower tones create an undercurrent of menace indicating that perhaps Mr. O'Rourke is not happy after all. Eventually, there is an abrupt and jarring shift into a nervous-sounding arrhythmic stuttering pattern that is quite annoying initially. Gradually however, it is augmented by a high-end shimmer and what sounds like a melancholic bowed bass or cello. O'Rourke slowly plunges the stuttering pattern deeper into the mix and the song concludes with the somber beauty of the subterranean strings pushed into the foreground.
"And I'm Singing" is a much cheerier piece, although it is built similarly around thick harmonized loops. However, O'Rourke's bag of tricks also yields some pleasantly melodic piano, a warm purring locked-groove, some odd and inconsistent percussion, and something that sounds like a garbage can falling down a flight of stairs. It continues to escalate in cheery, bouncy intensity until it becomes extremely obnoxious and busy, but then abruptly warps into something that sounds like a sad and ruined caricature of itself. Then it gets fairly irritating again, as it devolves into an amelodic flurry of electronic sounds, buzzing, and clanging. Thankfully, it morphs into an incredibly beautiful stuttering, lurching wall of backwards guitars and plucked acoustic harmonics before it fades out.
The album concludes with a very warm and meticulously constructed drone piece ("And a 1,2,3,4") that sounds like a glacially slow and digitally manipulated field recording of the most heartbroken string quartet in the world. It's an absolutely stunning piece and is probably the most sustained period of brilliance that I have heard on a Jim O'Rourke album. It lasts over twenty minutes and ebbs, swells, and becomes digitally distorted without ever losing its melancholic grandeur or lapsing into the puckish self-sabotage displayed on the early tracks.
Ironically, this entirely computer-based release will not be available digitally (the folks at Editions Mego presumably have an excellent sense of humor), but it does come with bonus disc of similar material recorded around the same time period. The three bonus tracks are enjoyable, but not particularly essential- they lack the warmth and melodicism of the album tracks and veer into harsher, less human territory ("Let's Take It Again From The Top" sounds like it could've been a Merzbow remix of something from the album). That said, the original album is a vital work by one of contemporary music's most intriguing and influential artists.
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